


Granted

by Ladycat



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Episode: s03e10 The Return Part 1, M/M, PWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-11
Updated: 2014-02-11
Packaged: 2018-01-12 00:50:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,285
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1179948
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ladycat/pseuds/Ladycat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John isn't drunk. He's only had one beer. It's just that his tolerance has vanished, since he's never been fond of vodka and the rotgut on level four was worse, so maybe it's not that he's drunk. Just... tipsy. Loose. Relaxed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Granted

"Oh, like that's so hard for you to believe." Rodney's had at least three beers on top of his healthy 'medicinal' shots of something green and vile and alcoholic enough to make John's head swim when he hands over the open bottle. He's not totally drunk yet. He's just... close. "I wash a -- _was_ a fine finger -- _figure_ of a man in my youth."

John smirks. It's the appropriate response, even if he doesn't need convincing. He's seen pictures of McKay in his twenties. Lacking an adult's breadth and depth, McKay was a skinny, curly-topped tempter made flesh. That so many others wanted that, despite the McKay Mouth that John's sure was still in existence, if still being honed -- yeah. That doesn't surprise him at all.

It does surprise Carson -- but since Carson's drunk enough that John's had to remind him he's not a Major any longer, he doubts believability is the issue.

God, John can just imagine it. He likes a man with meat on his bones -- muscle or stocky bulk doesn't really matter -- and life on his face, but he's not above being swayed by the picture of McKay he's pretty sure McKay will kill him if he discovers John seen it. It's for Halloween, probably, since McKay's dressed in nothing but a fuzzy loin-cloth and wings, visible ribs somehow not connoting starvation but the beauty of youth, his face powdered and painted, eyes like gem stones beneath a tumble of nearly blond curls.

John would do that. John would _happily_ do that.

"McKay the slut," John muses. It's not nice, but when is he ever nice to McKay? Especially since it makes Rodney make a face and attempt to kick him. They're sharing the sofa, but Rodney still misses. John gives him a speculative look underneath his lashes, just to make him splutter. "I could see that. Bet you were a rule-breaker."

John isn't drunk. He's only had one beer. It's just that his tolerance has vanished, since he's never been fond of vodka and the rotgut on level four was worse, so maybe it's not that he's _drunk_. Just... tipsy. Loose. Relaxed.

Maybe too relaxed. McKay's giving him a slow, solemn once over. It's the kind only drunks who certain they aren't can manage, but that's not what makes John fidget. McKay's not usually this _methodical_. Slow. Carefully taking in socked feet, loose jeans that feel rough and uncomfortable after his familiar BDU's. The sweater he's not sure why he even owns, the neck too high, almost brushing his chin. It's a little too tight, actually. He normally likes his shirts baggy, when he's not on duty.

McKay squints, suddenly. His head tips back, allowing John to see the two-day growth that almost covers the mole on his neck. "You're the same, aren't you?" It's a wonder he's not slurring.

He raises an eyebrow, because that's easy. Being studied is never easy, and that it's _McKay_ , who has to have him categorized down to the smallest molecule by now, makes the discomfort even more acute. "I was a pretty boy-toy who slept his way to fame, scholarships, and the occasional award?"

"I did not _sleep_ with him for that award!" McKay sips his beer, body at odds with the strident tone of his voice. "That award was mine anyway, and since all the other judges voted for me, too, except the one harpy who was jealous that I didn't sleep with her, the bitter old crone, just proves it! Besides." McKay smirks, chin still lifted. He's lost his frenetic, nervous energy and the result is sexy as hell. "Besides. That I got to tap that particular ass? Before _and_ after, I might add, since he kept coming back for more? Well, that was just bonus."

His smile is goofy and fond. John wants to lick it.

Badly.

Swallowing, John brings his leg onto the sofa so his jeans fit more comfortably. Dinner is a heavy weight in his stomach and not because McKay is almost incandescently hot like this. John's used to McKay being hot. Just like he's used to McKay never noticing John's reactions.

What he's not used to is the line of question McKay's not going to drop. As stubborn as he is sober, John's learned he's _worse_ when drunk.

Carson takes that moment to pass out. They both stare at him a while. He's stretched out on McKay's spare bed, so it's not like he's uncomfortable. The silence is strained, though.

He's just about to open his mouth to talk about more of McKay's conquests and/or suitors, but McKay's starts talking first. "I'm right," he says thoughtfully. "I mean, I'm always right. But this is different. How did I not manage to see this before? You're so -- _you_."

"You're drunk, McKay." He's harsh. Dismissive and cutting. Scared.

McKay reaches forward clumsily, patting his hand -- mostly his thigh, and oh, that's not helping -- in reassurance. "Relax, Colonel. Your secret's safe with me."

His secret? His secret fondness for historical romance? His secret addiction to peanut butter cups, something not even three years in another galaxy can break him of?

He says nothing. If he's lucky, McKay will slip off and never remember this.

He's not lucky. He never, ever is.

McKay shifts, fumbling his way closer so that their knees touch. He pats John's thigh again. "What was it?" he asks. He doesn't sound nearly as drunk as before, despite the blood-shot glaze to his eyes. His cheeks are flushed and his crooked, slanting mouth is very pink against his skin.

"What was what?"

"What was it that made you start breaking rules?"

McKay always does this to him. He's _so_ spectacularly bad with people that everyone -- even John -- forgets that McKay isn't unobservant, isn't stupid. He's brilliant, and when he gets the kind of puzzle pieces he _recognizes_ \-- 

John puts on his best dismissive smirk. He can't stand up -- McKay will follow, and fall on his face, and John doesn't want that. Tension makes his bones hum. "Right, McKay."

"Yes. I am. I bet you never broke a rule, or cut a corner, or -- or even _thought_ about it for years. You were... perfect. Perfectly obedient, perfectly willing, perfectly boring. I _know_ you were. The perfect soldier who never had a single thought someone else didn't think of, first. What made you change?"

A lump grows in his throat. He's not sure _why_ he keeps this a secret, beyond his normal reticence to talk about his childhood. There's nothing wrong with being a polite, quiet boy who always did what he was told. School every day, church on Sundays, and playtime was always under the auspice of a coach, or a mentor, or some kind of _adult_ he could stay with.

For the first seventeen years of his life, John Sheppard _was_ the perfect son. The pride of his mother's heart, the apple of his father's eye. No one ever had anything bad to say about him, expect maybe that he was a Mama's boy who never took any risks at all.

Ever.

McKay's still watching him, mouth slack as he stares. There's nothing recriminating there -- and why John's looking for that, he doesn't know. Being a good boy isn't a bad thing. It _isn't_.

It's just that now, twenty years later, he knows that it was.

"I fell in love," he says, hoarse and wistful.

Oddly quiet -- even _supportive_ and isn't that scary -- McKay asks, "What was her name?"

One beer. He's had only one beer. He's not drunk, and the tipsy is starting to fade away. There's no reason to stay, and even less reason to answer.

John leans his head back on the sofa and listens to Carson snore. "Enola Gay."

"E -- the _plane_?"

McKay's outrage is reassuringly familiar. John smiles, nodding. "Yup." If he closes his eyes, he can be back there in seconds. Standing in the museum with his class, the chatter of too many voices fading against the perfect, silver lines, the pilot's lecture no longer tired and worn as he realizes that one student, at least, is raptly fascinated. "A replica, but she could fly."

"But -- " McKay doesn't say, _the one that dropped the bomb?_ or _of course it was for a plane_ or any of the hundreds of things John's always imagined people would say. Instead, he says, " -- she's so _bulky_."

John blinks. Then again. "What?"

McKay makes a helpless gesture with his free hand. "You like things that are - are _sleek_. And _fast_. And don't have _wings_. And didn't your father want you to be a pilot anyway?"

"My father wasn't in the military," John hears himself say. There's a hollow, echoing boom in his stomach. His mouth doesn't stop. "Mom was a base nurse, but she was too old to enlist when women finally got the right. My father was a math teacher."

McKay continuing to wave his hand, now with an impatient look, isn't an expected response. "Please, like you didn't know I hacked your records already. I know all this! But your father -- I mean, he's on record saying -- "

"He's lying."

"Why?"

John shrugs. He's never really known why, just that when he came home, bursting with enthusiasm and brochures about the Air Force and his mother went cold and disappointed, his Dad had stepped up and quietly said that whatever John wanted, they'd support. "It was right before he got sick, too," he finishes.

Christ. Christ he'd said that _out loud._ Not just the last part, but all of it.

"So it wasn't your father. I, well. Sociology and psychiatry are even worse than medicine, but there _are_ recognizable patterns and a son's rebellion against his father is pretty standard. I mean, I was practically still in the _cradle_ when my father and I got into it, and never mind, I'll tell you about that some other time. You -- it was your mom?"

He's already said too much. His throat burns, after-trails of acid bitterness. He swallows, but it's not like he can take it back now. "Yeah. She never forgave me when I went ROTC."

"And thus began a long, and exemplary career of telling everyone to fuck off," Rodney finishes. "Did she ever? I mean. It's not any of my business, really, but -- "

McKay doesn't stop babbling. He's too nervous, aware that he's poked a hornet's nest into buzzing, angry retribution, but it's the attempts at sympathy that undo John. He can't take that from everyone. Up until McKay, he couldn't take it from _anyone_ , really.

Leaning forward, John silences McKay with a hard, bruising kiss. He buries his fingers in hair that isn't curly or blond or everywhere, other hand touching a cheek that isn't smooth and taut, and it's better than he's ever dreamed.

Especially when McKay doesn't stop talking for a full ten seconds. Then he starts kissing back, just as hard, and desperately frantic.

"God!" he says when John finally releases him. "What -- I mean, _yes_ , yes, of _course_ , but how did we go from discussing painful memories of our childhood to kissing me? Which you can do again. Any time you want. Maybe now, when I want? Also, what the hell? Still without objecting, but what the hell?"

John laughs. Eager puppy is not a look McKay is known for. He doesn't take a deep breath. He doesn't steel himself. He practices the words in his head until he knows he won't stutter or stammer, or generally act like a reclusive, stereotypical _man_ , the way he knows he did with Teyla. He says, baldly and without hesitation, "She didn't forgive me until I told her I was gay."

McKay's eye roll is perfect enough to make John laugh again. "Oh, shut up. That makes no _sense_. What does your mother and her possibly unAmerican ideals about the military and her thankfully progressive ideas on sexuality have anything to do with you and rule-breaking and -- oh. Oh."

This time it's McKay who leans forward, kissing so hard John's lips tingle, palms rubbing over John's jaw. "You're insane," he says. "Fortunately, I'm okay with insane. We're having sex now, right? Because along with being gay -- which, wow, _no one_ had any 'dar for you, at all, how is that even possible, Zelenka's like a bloodhound, which makes no sense since he's sadly, tragically straight -- you're gay for _me_ right? I mean, hot for me? Not just making a point?"

John laughs, letting Rodney steal the sound, tongues tangling together. "Whatever you say, Rodney."

"I say sex, sex _now_ , away from Carson because I really don't need the screaming if he happens to wake up." It's only when they're upright, groping and fumbling at each other as they stumble towards Rodney's bedroom that Rodney breaks off to say, "Also, I say you _don't_ need to see Heightmeyer. Okay?"

John groans, shoving Rodney against a convenient wall so they can grind together frantically. He's still not sure why he opened his mouth, and he's _certain_ he's going to feel ashamed of it later.

But he isn't going to regret it. 

"Fuck, fuck, yes, that's -- oh, god, if I'd known this was what it took to figure out if you were straight or not, I would've gotten you drunk _weeks_ ago! Who cares about humiliating stories? Just -- yes, yes, do that again, oh! Bedroom. Bedroom _now_ , I am not having sex against the wall when I have a bed on the other side of it."

John pulls back long enough to smirk at him. "Giving me orders, McKay?" He lowers himself to his knees, hands practically _shaking_ as he undoes Rodney's jeans.

Rodney doesn't talk after that. Well. He doesn't talk _sense_.


End file.
